Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Hell, I don’t know. I suppose
that thematically and word count/photo subject-wise, this is a sartorial blog.
On the other hand, my randomanalia and ADD spritzed drivel could also make the case that this is my parking lot for everything and nothing. And because I’ve
had zero interest in this being a commercial endeavor, I haven’t really given
too much of a damn. And others have been known to define this blog in various ways…

“It’s a divorced father and his daughter blog.”

“No…it’s an
antique toy soldier…

…and caricature …

…and sporadically, an art/art history…

…and book blog.” Oy.

“Bullshit. It’s a blog that tells the world when it’s
ok to wear seasonal fabrics…

…and seasonal shoes.”

“Silly fools, this blog is a fetish site for the
Belgian Shoes enterprise in NYC”

"Idiots...all of you. It's about socks and you'd know that if you'd keep up with things."

"Y'all are crazy. Everyone knows that this blog is about Martinis and being a functional alcoholic.

Actually, I suppose it’s about all of that and none of it with any level of
true depth and erudition…just how I like it. Remember last year? When I
caught myself caring too much about what I wrote, how often I wrote it and who
read it? I abruptly quit the whole damn thing. Balance is key and since my return, I’ve made sure to not lose sight of that. I won’t quit writing stuff
that intrigues me but I feel no pressure to write something every day. What I
am gonna do is commit to posting something at least once per week. And an email
that I received the other morning prompted me to turn my reply to a reader’s nice
email into this blog post. Here’s my email …

“Good morning and thanks for your email. I was looking
last night at the precipitous decline in the number of blog stories that I
write. I think it’s rather predictable for most bloggers over time, to run out
of steam…unless of course, they are doing it for a living or have unlimited time
to do it. I fall in neither category. I called the latest post “Trad Ivy
Tuesday” and labelled it as such for a reason. I am committing to something at
least every Tuesday and hopefully will also write at least one more story each
week in addition. I long ago struggled with the option of just throwing some
kind of damn picture up there every day in between longer stories…just to keep
people tuned in. But then I discovered tumblr for that.

The other thing competing with my blogging time is a
transition that I’m amidst with LFG. She’s reached another level—all good—she’s
a straight A student and a sweet, empathetic little gal. But my access to her
has plummeted.

So I’m amidst getting my place in Old Town ready to rent—I moved
back into one of my rental properties after we sold our marital home—and am
looking at rental properties in Chevy Chase and Bethesda.

My goal is to be
within ten-fifteen minutes of LFG so that I can be more spontaneously available
to help out and continue to be constant in her life. The CC/B area is a
different vibe than little old Alexandria but that’s a small price to pay in
order to stay at a reasonably high spot on LFG’s dance card.

The stunner date(s)! You probably know…or if you
don’t, you should, that I talk a ton of smack in those blog stories. The middle
age man/woman dating scene is fun bit tedious. The “stunner” in question has
four young adult kids. So the heck with spontaneity and any level of throwing
caution to the wind…just finding a mutually workable two hour window for a
bottle swill and a crab cake is a massive task.

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

My buddy
David turned me on to Acheson Country, a great little chronicle by Dean
Acheson’s son about growing up Acheson. It’s a one-sitting read and is a
delightful anecdotathon of WASP Ascendancy, conduct and deportment unique to
days gone by as well as a glimpse of a Georgetown and a Washington D.C. that no
longer exists. There’s also plenty of weigh-in on sartorial Acheson. And before
you start wondering about the Belgians-Acheson connection, be patient. I’ll
weave it together in the finale. I may no longer blog regularly enough to keep
you aware of my highly prized techniques; but please let’s not forget some of
the twisty-turny sorties that I’ve taken you on before. So settle down. And if
anyone has to pee, I’d suggest you go and do so now.

Predictably, reading Acheson Country only whetted my appetite so I then read Acheson’s memoirs, Present at the Creation. I’d love to have Acheson
and a few others at the table for a dialogue on their impressions of the
current state of political discourse and on compromise and the high art of
collaboration with the proverbial other side. My hunch is that Acheson and others would be
appalled by our current wading pool of inside-the-beltway venom that
characterizes Washington politics.

True to
his WASP-ness, Acheson was concerned about how dress clothes conveyed his
professional bearing and station…but not too much. Mr. Secretary was exacting
in what he liked and wore and his attention to detail borders on excessive. I guess that similar to the reaction of some men included in George Frazier’s TheArt of Wearing Clothes, Acheson would probably be flummoxed by the idea that he
was in a pantheon of exemplary Trad-Ivy style icons. Acheson was sartorially correct as opposed to
Adolph Menjou’s over-studied precision. He was the properly sequenced sartorialist
to the Kennedy clan’s delightfully dishevelled, unintentional Trad-Ivy BostonIrish Sprezzatura.

Here’s
an excerpt from historian David McCullough’s introduction to Acheson Country. “I
saw my first authentic, flesh-and-blood personage of history—my first Great Man
on the hoof, as it were—on a morning in New Haven, Connecticut, in the fall of
1953. Or maybe 1954. I was a Yale undergraduate on my way to class, heading along York Street, alone and wrapped in my own undergraduate fog, when all at
once, at the corner of where the high priced clothing stores were concentrated,
out of the door of J. Press stepped Dean Acheson.”

“…there
was no mistaking him. He couldn’t have been more conspicuous. Or I more
astonished. Yet there he was not thirty feet ahead, the former Secretary of
State, member of the Yale Corporation, Class of 1915 and for many of us he was
something of a hero…for the way he had faced the attacks of Senator Joe
McCarthy.”

“It wasn’t
just that he looked bigger than life but that he seemed poised there on York
Street, in drab New Haven, almost overdoing the responsibility of being Dean
Acheson—the spectacular tailoring, the mustache, the lift of his chin. It was
if some splendid actor in perfect Acheson dress had stepped suddenly from the wings
and I was his only audience.”

Folks; this is the personification of personal
style versus fashion. You can’t buy it in a store nor can you get schooled up
on it by reading how-to manuals. You either have it or you don’t. And based on
McCullough’s experience, the stuff was dripping off of Acheson. David Acheson
devotes an entire chapter…The Well
Dressed Man, to his dad’s sartorial proclivities. Here are a few passages
for your enjoyment…

“There
could be no question that Dad was a thorough, unreconstructed dude, a
fashionplate. For the office he was likely to favor a gray or brown or slate
blue or navy blue suit, often double breasted.”

“It was
not vanity, I thought and still think, which prompted Dad to lavish great care
on his dress. Rather it was one of many manifestations of a perfectionist drive
that touched everything he did. His aesthetic sense was sharp. It would have
offended that sense to put on clothes that in their cut, style, color
combination or condition could not have withstood critical scrutiny.”

Treasury
Department operative Stanley Surrey speaks of being in a meeting in the 1930’s
with Acheson where litigation strategy was being vetted. After the meeting, one
of Surrey’s colleagues asked him what the substance of the meeting was. “I
haven’t the slightest idea; I was totally absorbed in my study of Mr. Acheson’s
symphony in brown and its implications.”

David
Acheson offers witness to his dad’s interaction with tailors…“Raise the damn
collar—I’m not advertising shirt linen.” He also lists his father’s suppliers including…D’Elia and Marks, Sidney
West & Co., Brooks Brothers in New York as well as “Farnsworth-Reed until
they moved to a garish shopping mall in suburban Virginia. Subsequently, Dad
patronized J. Press when he went to New Haven each month for meetings of the
Yale Corporation. In the 1930’s Dad had his shoes made by Peal &Co in
London, but their prices went beyond his means in the post-war years.”

Lordy,
I’ve gotta tie all of this back to Belgians and our man Acheson...so here
goes.I was completely tickled to read
about the dichotomy of Acheson’s professional attire versus his weekend capricious assemblages.

“Away from civilization
at the farm, Dad dressed for dinner with family and friends in a fashion for
which outrageous would be an understatement.
Summer dinner costume, often as not, was lime green slacks, no socks,
sandals or Mexican huaraches on the feet, an orange sash falling to the knee.
He had the panache of the portrait of Trelawney by Lawrence, without the
turban.”

"To his family it did not require
explanation that his outré dress supplied a release from pent up pressures of
conformity. His family often tested the limits of outrageousness by giving him
articles of dress that even he might think went too far. But it became clear
that there were no limits. Green Belgian shoes, pink elephant socks, printed
cotton slacks—none of these produced any response from Dad but delight.”

So it
turns out that Dean Acheson might well be considered, togs-wise, the weekend High Llama of
Fuzzy…the Godly Grand Highness of Go To Hell. And all of this draped upon a
man who, as his son attests, on any given Saturday, might be sporting Belgians.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

A reader
over at my tumblr asked…“Speaking of
shoes, I don't see you wearing many lace-up shoes. (other than white bucks) Is
it because you don't hang with the suits? I gather from many of your comments
that you are often the most dressed up guy in the room- and that usually means
you are That Guy With That Thing Around His Neck. But, if you were in serious
banking or, God forbid, law or finance, would you wear oxfords, wingtips,
captoes- blucher or otherwise? Special bonus question: where do you stand on
wholecuts?” So I decided to answer the
question over here.

Lace-ups?
Your observation is correct. They aren’t a huge part of my lineup anymore
mostly because suits are such a rare part of my kit these days. The classic Brooks Brethren wingtip above is indeed just that--classic. But it isn't relevant to me anymore. And when I do
wear suits, monk straps seem to be adequate. Suits in general and the dressiest
most elegant versions especially, might deserve a dressier shoe. Trust me, I
know the rules and at one time in my life I used to abide by them rather
faithfully. I’m on the record having posited that the world, sartorially and
deportment-wise, is already at the bottom of the slippery-ass slope. So when I
put on a pair of not-dressy-enough monk strap shoes with a suit, unfortunately,
I am by default, better dressed and shod than 89.3783% of humanity. Don’t get
me wrong…I’m not better than or earlier in the queue for heaven than 89.3783%
of humanity. I come in at about 47.8765% on the former and 22.2232% on the
latter. (We don’t round our numbers here. Shut up.)

And yes, I
am usually "The Guy With That Thing Around His Neck."

I worked
for a very strict and culturally rigid pharma organization for thirteen years.
And during those years it would have been career suicide to wear 90% of what I
swath and shod in today. My work wardrobe was suits only—no sportcoats, white
or blue solid dress shirts, maybe a basic stripe thrown in if my most recent
performance review was stellar. And shoe-wise, I wore two lace-up variations
exclusively...all-day every-day--for thirteen years. The black cap-toe Allen Edmonds example above
represents what was on my feet probably four days a week for thirteen years.
Maybe that’s why I have an aversion to black shoes today.

When I was
away from the Corporate Colon in New Jersey or Basel, either working in the
field or working out of one of the regional offices, the most ambitious I’d
ever get, shodding-wise would be a suede cap-toe with a bit of
punching/brogueing similar to the above. I’ve often said of my corporate years,
before the business casual boondoggle, that I was one of the best dressed guys
you’d ever see, Monday through Friday and at best on the weekends…Preppy
Homeless. And it was true. After being cinched up...suiting swathed and
cap-toed all week, I’d have on a pair of beat-to-shit khakis, Alden tassels or
Bean bluchers—no socks of course unless it was snowing…a popped collar knit
shirt in the summer or a Shetland crewneck sweater in the winter. Underneath it
all however, was always LaPerla.

I’m not
anti-lace-ups per se but it seems that in our slovenly world and in my now more
casual phase, monk straps are my alternative to a slip-on. But here’s a bit of
an update. Be patient and I’ll let you peek at something…probably mid-October.
The boys at Cleverley are working on a mongrelized two-eyelet lace up for me.
I’d ask that you “picture this” but a healthy mind probably can’t. The shoe above? That’s an Edward Green classic that I literally wore till it could
no longer be refurbished—recrafted—resurrected—resuscitated or re-anythinged.

So I’ve
re-imagined my old Edward Green shoe but with fuzzy mongrelizations that are
gonna make most traditionalists harrumph and cause more ardent devotees and
adherents to hurl. Instead of brown suede I’ve opted for a suede color that has
slightly more yellow in it than the tobacco or snuff colors that are so
beautiful and therefore so ubiquitous. The Cleverley name on the swatch I
selected is Brass. To further bastardize standard time-tested models and shapes
and colors, I’ve requested an Algonquin split-toe, raised stitching, Cleverley
suspiciously square-ish toe, Dainite bottomed assemblage to finish this monkey
off. Oh, and with tassels on the laces of course. Picture the
Edward Green Leffot shoe above but with the aforementioned tweaks. That’s the best
I can do to create a remotely relevant example of how to help your normal mind
get a read on what my beautiful mind has con-shod-ulized. Shut up…at least for
now. You can howl at me in October when I show you the mess-in-progress.

And I was
asked about wholecuts. Bottom line…they are tricky. The very thing that defines
the shoe also sets the stage for its rapid…and I mean Astroglide rapid descent
down the slippery slope towards Pimp-Disco. Wholecut above? ADG no likey.

The
wholecut paucity of line…the sports car prototype sleekness of design are just
two things top of my mind that stand me in awe, yet on the cusp of ugh. And
any shoe maker will tell you that the skills involved in making a wholecut properly is a high calling.
Go here to see evidence of what I speak. Wholecut
above? ADG could probably grow to likey. If you gave it to me.

But man oh
man…wholecut slippers? Loafers? It’s a whole ‘nother fuzzy thang. Go here to see The ShoeSnob’s post that offers a nice representation of ‘em. If you can’t see art and
God and beauty in the manifestation above, I feel sorry for you. And so does
Gaziano and Girling, the inceptors and creators of this stronger than
nine-rows-of-spring-onions example.

I’m broke.
Seriously. But in doing some gandering around for examples to augment this
story, I’ve happened upon the Bamford by Edward Green pictured above, courtesy
of Leffot. And I think I'm gonna have to Bam!

Folks, this is bigger than me…bigger than all
of us. This is girlie-slipper-Belgians-ADG fuzzy all to be damned. And how
would I wear it? Just like the proprietor of Leffot is preening it above…but
without the Sandra Dee jean cuff. Oh, and I’d wear it with Marcoliani socks
from Will or Kabbaz and gray flannel trousers or linen togs with no socks.
Hell, if I can ever get Roxanne Burgess back over here, I’d wear the darn
things nekkid.

When I
finish this post I’m gonna cull the requisite number of antique lead soldiers
from my shelf, arrange a sale to my go to collector-buyer that I swap such
goods with, and take the dosh to Sky Valet and commission the Bamford
today—before I go and get my former daughter LFG from dance. But what hide?
Have you ever seen the Edward Green swatch book? I only have a zillion choices.
Help me. Would you go with suede? EG only has fifty colors. What about shell
cordovan? Talk to me.

So it’s off
to Los Angeles next week on business. Maybe I better hold off on any more of
this shoddingossity till I get to Leather Soul Beverly Hills. Check out Will's story on them here.

Onward.
Broke. Bespoke. And shod all to be damned…but only in Belgians this morning. ADG II and
soon, but for only a night; the only thing that makes my heart come back alive,
one Miss LFG.

Sunday, May 13, 2012

Fairfax
Virginia is about twenty-two miles from Middleburg. I’m finishing a lunch
meeting in Fairfax the other week when I remembered how close I was to Middleburg, the little horsey hamlet. The Angel-D.G. on my shoulder
said…“You have no business going out there today. Wait till you can go on a sunny
Saturday or Sunday with some stunner. You know...have lunch...go in all those girly shops
with your date and pretend like you're enjoying it 'cause you know what usually follows.” Yep. I know what usually follows--a nap. Alone.

But the A.Devil-G
on my other shoulder said “Don’t be such
a _ussy. You had a great year business-wise, back in 2006 and you’ll have another one in 2014. Blow off the afternoon
and head to Middleburg. It’s sunny today and it may rain for the next seventeen
weekends. Besides, you are out of salad dressing” So I listened, as I usually
do, to the Devil. I was out of salad dressing after all.

Middleburg by the way, to non-landowners and
non-horse people, is an idea mostly. It’s a good idea and one I that I respect. I come
from farm people so I understand the idea of country living, stewardship and
conservation—land and critter-wise. But for those townies like me who roll into
Middleburg and expect anything more than the fifty-five minutes worth of
browsing the main street shops, you’ll be disappointed. Vicky Moon in her book Middleburg Mystique sums all this up
nicely. And you can buy the Middleburg print above right here.

There
are barn tours from time to time and events occasionally that will allow
pedestrians a peek into some of the houses and farms. But unless you know
people, the true essence of Middleburg won’t manifest for you—ever. And that’s
the way the real country living people…the legit horsey folks…like it. You’ll
be more likely to see some authentic Middleburg cohorts if you hang out in the
Safeway grocery store or one of the saddlery/tack shops off the beaten path as
opposed to any of the twee, equestrian tchotchke gift shops on main street.

And how
would one know the real thing if they saw it? Four words…patinated, smug,
shabby reserve. And circumstantial evidence of authenticity might include a beat
up old Jeep Waggoneer or an old, old Rover or Detroit made pickup truck—dirty
and dented. Muck shoes or riding boots…muddy or at least scuffed. Beat to shit
old keepers tweed hacking jacket-torn pocket unrepaired. Or a Barbour that’s
anything but water repellent. Maybe twenty years ago it was.

Declaring
myself an outsider helps me enjoy the little glimpses and tastes of Middleburg
that I get from time to time. Whether it’s the annual company retreat that my
partners and I used to have at the Red Fox Inn when some of the outbuildings were
still offered for weekly rentals. Or the social event or post steeplechase
party or eleven that I’ve attended through the years. I’m a cheerful visitor…a
pleased to be there…outsider. It’s the same orientation I had to my two years
in New Orleans. Enjoying the experience without the pressure of trying to
belong makes for a reasonably good time. Plus, these folks can spot a poseur a
furlong away.

Oh, and
for those who are interested in the horsey folks in general, Michael Korda
weighs in precisely on the equestrian set in his book, Horse People.

And speaking of the art of revealing poseurs...This is gonna surprise you I know—but I dated an accomplished
Equestrienne about three years ago who remains in the horse business and fully
immersed and quite respected in the Middleburg and Loudon-Orange Counties horse business-world. She’s the real-deal…an Olympic caliber horsewoman who can separate
the wheat from the chaff in about two seconds.

She defined the horsey crowd poseurs in a conversation with me one
time as living the “Equestrian Lie.”
I kept an email exchange, long after she dumped me. (I’m scared of horses and they know it. I don’t have to be standing
beside one for them to sense my fear. I can drive by a fenced-in thoroughbred at
sixty miles an hour and said horse can intuit at one hundred yards away that I’m
skeered of him. He laughs, running parallel to my car for as long as his
fenced-in-ness will allow) You can only make excuses for so long regarding
why you can’t/won’t go riding with a horsewoman so I knew that I had it coming--the dumping.

Here’s the email…“What is
the Equestrian Lie? Top line it for me so that I can blog it.”

Many categories here...

1) The large landowners who can actually afford to be members, and are under the false delusion that foxhunting is still considered an exclusive, elitist and moneyed club by the surrounding public.

2) The wealthy but not large landowners who buy their way into a hunt
membership ($250,000.00 in Orange County) in order to be part of the
"cool" elite but yet aren't comfortable on a horse.

3) The professional's or "groom's" memberships. These are the
individuals that actually have the skill to be on a horse at 25mph over solid
obstacles chasing a fox. Unfortunately, they have sub-prime mortgages and have
their memberships bought by either group #1 or group #2 as an extremely
expensive "babysitter." Main job is to pick up the old gents off the
ground, dust them off, and tell them that they rode brilliantly, it was the
stupid horse's fault that they're on the ground. The equestrian lie is rampant in many categories.”

Listen--there are poseurs and climbers in all camps…the sailing set in
Annapolis comes to mind as well. But there seems to be an excess amongst the horsey
set. But please don’t interpret my observations as coming from one who is
anti-any of this. I’m not. I just like for people to be real. And by the way,
the Fox Hunting ban is nothing but class warfare. It has zero to do, at least
from a statistical, unemotional assessment of its impact on the fox population.
So for what other reason would one want to ban it? Oh, I forgot. Cruelty.

I digress--as usual so let's get back to my whatever the hell story this set out to be. I
like my Middleburg sorties. And like a lot of my ganderings, they are
predictable. Roll into the high street and have lunch at the Red Fox Inn…visit
the two remaining legitimate antique and sporting art establishments there
remaining, grab a jar or two of my favorite salad dressing at the posh butcher
shop—formerly the local bank. And finally, cap it off with a visit to English
Country Classics.

But
before I get to English Country Classics, let’s take a glimpse at some of the
goodies that I saw in the galleries. No surprise that the shops and galleries
are geared for their constituents. If you want an early 20th century
Swaine-Adeney riding crop, Middleburg would be your go-to locale for such
things. Since I’m not in the market for such, I tend to gander the art.

Whippetish-Greyhounds and some kind of terrier...whatever
the breed(s) looked like a century and a half ago…here they are.

The
prices are predictable but not stunning. I have no wall space left so as much
as I’d like to have one of these…

I tend
to think that this late 19th century melange-collage-aggregation was
painted with someone like me in mind.

Someone like me...yep...one who
can’t stay focused or make up their damned mind about much of anything. Yep, I’ll
just have one of each.

Two
little Coursing pictures…

…a cruel
sport? Not really. Both dogs just had to keep up with each other…

I like
this one of the two the best.

Dig
their sportcoats.

And
finally, this vignette was stellar.

I think
y’all should pool your money and get me this one for Chanukah ’12.

Around
the corner from one of the galleries is a nice little haberdashery that offers
an array of tasty goods. I always gander their goods before going over to
English Country Classics. I’m all about fuzzy diced mongrelized assemblages.
Rules and convention are meant to be trifled with—ADG style. So from a
distance, a Nantucket-Brick Red sport coat didn’t seem off-putting.

Till I
got closer. Linen and silk hacking jacket with a throat latch. Or as one of my
fratty brothers used to say in his Winnsboro South Carolina accent…"thoat”. If the weather says you are in need of latching your lapels in the summer time, chances are your
ass is in danger of being struck by lightning. Forget about thoat latching and
seek cover.

EnglishCountry Classics reminds me a little bit of England…London precisely…and
Cordings even more so. Except that nowadays, English Country Classics is doing
it better than those in England. Cordings are hanging on but not without a
flurry of off-strategy come ons and vaguely tethered connections to their core
uniqueness. I suppose they have to do these things to stay in business since
their competitors along Jermyn Street have defaulted to the typical J. Crew—Abercrombie
inspired derivative, loud music playing in the store, American bullshit.

The
goods there sturdy and classic and rarely on sale. They don’t seem to want or
need to play that game. Brooks Brothers, amidst the May-June sweet spot that
used to be the time when if your goods were tasty, you were able to facilitate a
change in their ownership for full retail price, is offering me 30% off on
almost everything in the store. It’s a shell-game I reckon. Mark it up--then mark it down.

I
generally don’t buy things out of season unless they are marked down to levels
absurd. Surprise…I’m an ADD capricious instant gratification guy so I don’t fancy
getting stuff and putting it away till later. And God knows I don’t need a
third quilted coat. But I
did. And let me explain...let me rationalize why I paid full retail and why this
quilted number is now happily put away till probably October.

God and
goodness often avail themselves in the details. And this quilted wonder is
loaded with nuanced little game changers. It’s cut like a sport coat. Three-two
roll with a ticket pocket. I mean come on. That’s rationale for
procurement right there.

“But
couldn’t you just wait till late September to buy it, ADG? Plus, look at that thing. The cut is so much like a sport coat that it won't offer much warmth and protection.” Maybe. But I wasn’t
going to risk it. The other thing that’s good about English Country Classics is
that they don’t buy deep. And their tasty bits are commissioned from small
volume artisans who don’t have a toll-free number for merchants to restock
standard staples. There’s nothing standard here and once it’s gone, it’s usually
gone for good.

Especially quilted jackets with gray flannel piping.

Remember…I
can rationalize just about anything. Including buying an accompanying tattersal
shirt on a scale that transcends ADG fuzziness. This one’s off the chart, scale-wise. It’s tumescent. It’s turgid. It’s tattersal. And it’s mine. Shut up.

Most
guys end up owning more than one navy blazer so I’m hereby using navy blazer
rationalization for quilted goods. And this one just happens to be…navy as
well. With double vents.

Is it too sporty to offer any decent protection against the elements? Absolutely not. Cinch it up and you've got full coverage.

Oh, and
before I go…look at this off the rack baby that remains out there in Middleburg...a well cut hacking jacket siren... beckoning me. And God and the Devil know that I need another sport coat. The only reason I tried this one on was to simply do a quality of goods and accuracy of fit/cut review. Really.